


The Royal Stud

by Island_of_Reil



Category: Shingeki no Kyojin | Attack on Titan
Genre: About 95 Percent Yumikuri and 5 Percent Arustoria, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Awkward Sexual Situations, Bodily Fluids, Cunnilingus, Divergence from chapter 69 onward, F/F, F/M, Impregnation, Jealousy, Light Angst, Ymir Being an Asshole, Ymir as Fluffer, consensual voyeurism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-25
Updated: 2016-06-25
Packaged: 2018-07-18 04:25:20
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,816
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7299493
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Island_of_Reil/pseuds/Island_of_Reil
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Armin is chosen to father the royal heir, about which his feelings are very mixed. He doesn’t learn until he gets to Historia’s suite that Ymir has insisted on staying in the room the whole time and Historia has given in to this demand. It turns out to be a good thing. Mostly.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Royal Stud

**Author's Note:**

> [Kinkmeme](http://snkkink.dreamwidth.org/19979.html?thread=10028043#cmt10028043) [prompt](http://snkkink.dreamwidth.org/13546.html?thread=9031146#cmt9031146) (my own, actually). Thanks to [sparksofwrite](http://archiveofourown.org/users/sparksofwrite) for looking this one over.

“You know this is just so she can have a baby,” Ymir said brusquely. “Right?”

“Uh — yeah,” Armin huffed. He told himself he was short of breath because Ymir’s long strides down the private royal corridors were making it a challenge for him to keep up with her. He was telling himself bullshit. He’d never be as strong as Eren or Jean, but the days when Reiner had to carry his backpack for him were long gone.

“So,” Ymir went on, “you stick it in her once, she gets preggers, The End. Unless she doesn’t, and they decide it’s not because you’re shooting blanks. In which case you come back in a few months during Ovulation Week and stick it in her again. Rinse and repeat until she _does_ get preggers, and _then_ that’s The End. Got it?”

“Yes, yes, I got it,” Armin said, not bothering to keep the churlish note out of his voice. He supposed he’d be jealous, too, in Ymir’s place. But she didn’t have to take it out on him. This hadn’t even been his idea.

Other than a few Wall Cult lunatics, a minority even within that crowd, nobody cared that Historia had brought Ymir back from beyond the walls, declared she wouldn’t be punished for anything she’d done, and named her the royal consort. Historia was a Reiss, she’d taken down the biggest titan anyone had ever seen, she was providing for humanity’s most bereft children, and her subjects adored her. Also, the Survey Corps was doing a good job of running things behind the scenes.

The only problem was that Historia needed an heir. Ymir could do a lot of impressive things, but begetting a child wasn’t one of them. Debates over who would get that honor had lasted long into the nights at Survey Corps HQ.

To rule out anyone with lingering sympathies for Rod Reiss or Kenny Ackerman, the father would have to be someone from the Corps. But who? One of the officers? Historia had issued a flat no to that. Especially Commander Erwin. Double-especially Captain Levi. Eren? Shifting ability didn’t seem to be congenital, but not everyone was convinced of that … and, if what the Corps now knew about Grisha Jaeger ever got out, that would make the choice of Eren even more politically risky. Connie? Erwin had tactfully suggested to Historia, “Perhaps you’ll want to select someone with a little more … intellectual prowess.”

So it had come down to Jean or Armin. And, while Jean’s fighting abilities and leadership potential had made him a decent candidate, Armin’s intellectual and strategic strengths had carried the day. “A royal heir would benefit greatly from a politically astute parent,” Erwin had observed. As Armin would probably never lead a formation into battle, he was more likely than Jean to survive to help raise his own children. Historia was fond of him, because along with Sasha he had rushed to her side after Levi had roughed her up. And… well…

“She can always blow out the candles, squint, and imagine he’s another girl,” Ymir had said with a mean look in her eye. Armin had slid down several centimeters in his seat. Historia had rolled her eyes all the way back in her head before closing them and putting her face in her hands. Mikasa had shot Armin a sympathetic look and Ymir a death glare. Eren, however, was the one who had gotten up with his fists clenched, glaring at Ymir, then gotten up again after Levi grabbed him by the arm and threw him back into his chair. The meeting had had to be adjourned early amid a lot of angry shouting.

Jean, unlike Armin, had been all but praying he’d be chosen as the father. After the decision came down, he’d approached Armin in the hallway. “You lucky bastard,” he’d said, grinning ruefully.

Armin had smiled weakly. “Yeah. I guess.”

“You _guess?_ Didn’t we all want to marry her at some point?”

“‘At some point’ was back when she was still Krista. Krista wasn’t the one who yelled at you and me to quit slacking and get back to work.”

“Yeah, well, she’s a queen, they get to do that sort of thing,” Jean said blithely. “I could’ve forgotten about that. I already had, actually.”

“But — it’s not just about the one night, Jean. Are you honestly ready to have a child right now?” Armin didn’t add, _and not live to see him or her grow up?_ “Because I know I’m not. Never mind a child who might be able to read other people’s memories.” He’d shuddered on more than a few occasions at the idea of his own son or daughter watching Carla Jaeger being eaten alive. Or scaly hands skittering over Armin’s chest in a dimly lit warehouse. Or that MP collapsing in a fountain of blood. Or a hundred other things Armin had tried to forget.

Jean’s face hardened. “Half the things I’ve done this year, Armin, I wasn’t ready to do. But I did them anyway. I think I could’ve dealt with having a kid better than I dealt with some of that shit. And even if… well, even if the worst were to happen, the kid would be well taken care of. And… you know, other than that one night, it wouldn’t have been for me, anyway. It’d have been for humanity. You know?”

“That’s true,” Armin said, his voice subdued.

“Anyway.” Jean’s tone lightened again. “My mom’s gonna be super disappointed to hear she won’t be having a royal grandchild. I gotta buy her something nice to make it up to her.”

Armin took a deep breath. “You don’t think you would have been… afraid of Ymir? Even a little bit?”

Jean blinked a few times. Then he said, “Well… yeah, when she’s in her titan, I’m careful around her. But otherwise, she’s the same as anyone else from the 104th who’s still around. Eren’s a titan too, right? But I can still kick his ass when he’s not in his titan. Sometimes.”

“Right, but … she’s really protective of Historia. And, uh, I don’t think she likes this whole thing one bit.”

Jean snorted. “Historia’s gotta have a kid if she wants to stay in power, and if she doesn’t stay in power, Ymir’s ass is grass. Ymir’s an asshole, but she’s not dumb. So I wouldn’t worry too much about her.” He grinned again and punched Armin lightly in the shoulder. “So. Go get some.”

Armin later reflected that maybe Jean wasn’t afraid of Ymir in human form because the two of them would be more equally matched in a fight than Ymir and Armin. Or maybe it was because it wasn’t Jean whom Ymir once suggested leaving on a rooftop to die. Or maybe Jean, no matter how much he’d matured since graduation, would have enjoyed giving Ymir little smirks for years afterward.

It certainly wasn’t because Jean was stupid. He wasn’t at Armin’s level of intelligence, or the Commander’s, but he was pretty damned sharp. That said, with the exception of Historia and maybe also Mikasa and Levi, Armin wasn’t sure how anyone with some modicum of wit wasn’t at least a _little_ afraid of Ymir.

The private corridors ended at the large and elaborate double doors that led to Historia’s personal suite of rooms. The Survey Corps more or less had carte blanche to go anywhere in the palace, including here. Armin, however, wasn’t in uniform right now. He was wearing nicely tailored clothes and expensive shoes; Erwin had brought him to both the tailor and the shoemaker in the high street of Mitras. “He’s with me,” Ymir said to the door guard. If the man knew why Armin was with her, he gave no indication, just a single short nod as he unlocked the doors for them.

The suite wasn’t as endless as the corridors leading to it, but they passed through a reception room, an inner sitting room, and a short inner corridor before arriving at another set of double doors. These were flanked by two more guards. “Is he your guest, my lady?” one of them said inquiringly. Armin thought it much more likely that these two did know the purpose of his visit, and he flushed.

Ymir smirked. “He sure is, guys. Behold: The royal stud.”

Armin wished it were possible for him to sink completely into the thick carpeting under the soles of his new shoes. The guards, who would have had the time to get acquainted with Ymir by now, assumed what looked to him like patiently suffering expressions as they opened the doors.

The room beyond was enormous, its décor lavish yet tasteful and quite feminine. The furniture was painted white, as were the walls, and ornately carved; the fabrics were a soothing wash of blues and purples with the occasional bit of white lace. The vanity stand was replete with innumerable vials and tubes of cosmetics and perfumes, and a silver-framed mirror hung above it. Hanging elsewhere were three landscape paintings that incorporated Walls Sina, Rose, and Maria respectively, plus a portrait of a girl in a straw hat who looked like an older, dark-haired Historia. All about the room stood vases of fresh flowers — lilies, lavender, irises — and their combined scents floated on the air. Everything was bathed in a soft, warm light by seven beeswax tapers in a standing candelabrum, which added their own pleasant aroma to that of the blossoms.

The bed was huge, with canopy and curtains and a multitude of pillows. And on one edge of it, in a pale-blue peignoir and matching slippers, sat the Monarch of the Walls.

“Hello, Armin,” Historia said with a nervous smile. Her hands were twisting in her lap, and she was worrying at her signet ring. Armin had a fleeting, disconcerting memory of Annie Leonhardt in Stohess.

“Hi,” he said back, her name sticking in his throat.

“Okay then.” Ymir shut the doors behind her with a decisive click. “Get it over with.”

Historia sighed and closed her eyes. “Ymir. He won’t be able to just ‘get it over with’ if you’re going to hound him like that the whole time.” Ymir’s face darkened further, but she said nothing, just leaned up against the doors with her arms folded.

“So, um,” Historia said to Armin now. “This is going to be kind of weird. I couldn’t convince Ymir to leave the room while we… you know. I’m sorry, Armin.”

“Um,” Armin said. And then, because there was really nothing to say in response, he added, “Okay.”

“I mean, I could’ve ordered her to leave,” Historia went on quickly, her pitch and volume rising. “But, well. She’s really not happy about this. I want her to be happy.”

Armin turned his head back over his shoulder to catch Ymir giving Historia the foulest of looks. Historia couldn’t have missed it; evidently she was choosing not to notice. Armin thought that if he’d been Ymir, dependent on Historia’s good will to survive, he wouldn’t have pressed his luck. But, well, Historia loved her. And love, romantic or otherwise, made people do things that made no sense.

“But, also,” Historia added. “The thing is, uh, she might have to … help me out a little. I mean… well, I’m not really into boys.” She forced a weak, apologetic smile, then went red in the face. “I, um, don’t think I could get, you know, aroused enough for it to be comfortable.”

“Er,” Armin said. _So much for blowing out the candles and squinting,_ he thought. And then: _Jean, if you could’ve heard that, would you still be jealous?_ Would Jean even have been able to … perform in this kind of situation? Jean probably had more sexual experience than Armin did, but at heart Jean was still a straight-laced mama’s boy from a nice neighborhood in Trost.

Shiganshina’s neighborhoods had not been that nice. The refugee camp, even less nice. The military was, well, the military, but there were always storage closets and sheds, thickets in the woods, and the showers or unlocked classrooms in the middle of the night. Armin doubted Jean had ever been an unwilling witness, visual or auditory, to anything more than a surreptitious mutual jerk-off session in the barracks after lights out. And you became oblivious to those sounds by the end of your first week in training.

Having Ymir in the room with him and Historia would not be the weirdest or most awkward sexual situation Armin had ever been privy to, not by a long shot. Even if it was the weirdest and most awkward he’d ever participated in.

“Anyway,” Historia said in far too chipper a voice. She stood up and unbuttoned the peignoir and tossed it over the back of a bedside chair. Underneath she wore a short, lacy nightgown and underpants in the same shade of blue. She kicked her slippers off as well.

Her arms and legs were still fairly toned, maybe from wrangling small obstreperous children around, but since leaving the Survey Corps for the palace she’d exchanged some of her muscle mass for modest curves. “You… look very nice,” Armin managed around the tightening in his throat. From the snort by the door he supposed that had sounded pathetic.

Historia smiled a little. “Thanks,” she said. “You, uh, look nice too.”

“Uh, thanks.”

“Are you both gonna stand there and compliment each other’s fashion sense all night?”

Armin remembered the last time he’d seen that expression on Historia’s face: just before she’d killed her own father. In combination with her lingerie it was kind of surreal. “If you’re so impatient for him to get it over with, why don’t you get over here, then, and get things started?” she demanded.

Ymir was at the bedside in a few remarkably short strides. Looking less irritated — looking intent and hungry, actually — she stood behind Historia. Her freckled golden hands contrasted sharply with Historia’s pale, clear skin as she gently tugged the nightgown upward and over Historia’s head, Historia raising her arms to help her.

Historia’s breasts were small and round with tiny pink nipples. Armin watched with fascination as Ymir’s dark fingers cupped them, then rolled the nipples gently. “Feel good, sweetheart?” she murmured in Historia’s ear.

“Mmmm,” Historia said, closing her eyes. The tension of earlier hadn’t left her face completely, but now it competed with a different kind. When Ymir’s fingers tightened on her nipples, Historia’s lips fell open and her tongue darted out to wet them. All of Armin’s blood surged into his groin, or at least it felt as though it had. It surprised him a little, that Ymir’s presence wasn’t turning him off at all. Maybe it was a good thing she’d stayed, if she was having this effect on Historia. He took a deep breath to keep himself steady on his feet.

Ymir sat herself on the edge of the bed, then pulled Historia backward several centimeters into her arms. She set her teeth delicately on the edge of Historia’s right ear and began to nibble at it as she continued to play with Historia’s nipples. Historia’s breath hitched, and Armin could see her throat working. Ymir moved all the way down to the lobe and took it into her mouth, and from the motion of her jaw and Historia’s pleased little yelp, he assumed she had administered a nip. He hadn’t considered that Historia might … like it rough. The thought made his mouth dry.

Ymir’s mouth, by contrast, seemed wet enough, judging by the lewd noises issuing from its junction with the side of Historia’s neck. Historia was squirming, stifled little moans coming out from between her clenched teeth. After several minutes, her own hand strayed into her panties to rub delicately at herself. Armin throbbed hard and, with effort, suppressed a groan.

“Nuh-uh,” Ymir said warningly, grabbing her wrist and pulling her hand back. “You don’t get to touch that right now. That’s for me to take care of in a little while.”

“O-okay,” Historia breathed, leaning back to rest her head in the crook of Ymir’s shoulder. The tip of her finger glistened in the low light. Armin’s head swam.

Ymir spent a few more minutes rolling and tweaking Historia’s nipples. Then she grasped her by the hips and, turning her so they faced one another, pulled her into her own lap. Her face was at a level with Historia’s breasts, and she immediately took one nipple into her mouth, laying a dark hand over the side of the pale breast. Historia’s head tilted backward, her eyes closed. She was breathing heavily, too, and the sound of it was filling the room — _no, that’s me, too,_ Armin realized, with only the faintest registering of how off his perception was right now.

Ymir switched to the other nipple. Historia groaned again, and she shifted in Ymir’s lap until she was straddling one muscular thigh. Just as she started to grind down against it, Ymir pulled off her nipple with a wet smack. “Cut that out,” she said, grabbing Historia high up on one outer thigh and wrenching her back into a full sitting position. Historia made a kind of angry whine. Ymir ignored it, choosing instead to look at Armin out of the corner of her eye and ask, “You enjoying the show?”

Armin opened his mouth and a faint creaky noise came out. “Yeah, I thought so,” Ymir said.

“Shut _up,_ keep _going,”_ Historia snapped, grabbing Ymir by the hair and pulling her head back to her own breasts. The attentions to her nipples resumed, as ostentatiously loud as before. Historia writhed in Ymir’s lap, but Ymir still had her by the hips, fingers pressing deeply enough into the flesh to leave marks. Amid the sucking noises and the groans there was suddenly another yelp chased with a gasp of “Unh, _fuck,”_ and Ymir murmuring, “Too hard?” and Historia moaning, _“No.”_ Armin dug his fingernails into his palms and bit the inside of his cheek. _God._

He remembered hearing an older trainee say once that if you ran through 3DMG maneuvers in your mind during sex, it could take the edge off, so you wouldn’t come too soon. He’d gone through the ones he learned in first-year training and was trying to concentrate on the details of the second year’s when suddenly Ymir pushed Historia off her lap and further backward on the bed. Then she knelt on the carpet at Historia’s dangling feet and tugged her panties completely off her legs, revealing a neatly trimmed tuft of golden hair. As she pushed Historia’s thighs apart, Armin had a brief glimpse of swollen pink outer lips and gleaming inner membranes before Ymir pulled Historia forward again, up to her own mouth.

Armin couldn’t quite see how she was using it, but it was obvious she knew what she was doing. Historia’s face contorted as she threw back her head and moaned wantonly, the movement thrusting her stiff nipples into the air. She had drawn her knees up to plant her feet on the edge of the bed, and now her toes curled into the sheets. She wasn’t the only one moaning; Ymir occasionally made a stifled sound of arousal too. For the first time in his life Armin regretted having no affinity for the Wall Cult whatsoever because, surely, praying to someone or something was the only thing that could keep him from coming in his nice new trousers.

The wet sounds coming from Historia’s lap were lewder than the earlier ones, and they got louder too. Historia knotted her fingers in Ymir’s black hair, pulling her head closer, and arched her back more strongly than she had before. This time her breasts bounced hard against her chest. Armin wondered for a second if Ymir could even breathe in that position. He was struggling for breath himself right now, and his face wasn’t even mashed into someone else’s crotch. But Ymir seemed fine with letting Historia guide her, even manhandle her, with hands and thighs and voice.

Before long they were rocking forward and backward with enough force that Armin expected Historia to fly off the bed and collapse on top of Ymir. But she stayed in place. She was practically shouting on every exhale as she bucked against Ymir’s jaw, crimson and sweat-slick from forehead to breasts, the muscles straining in her upper arms and inner thighs, her knuckles white against Ymir’s hair. The wet sounds grew louder still, he could see a few thin streaks of moisture on Ymir’s cheeks, and he’d have sworn he saw a droplet go flying as they picked up even more speed. There was a soft but distinct smell of musk in the air now, heavier than the scents of the flowers.

Though he’d never watched a girl have an orgasm before, the exact second Historia’s began, he knew. It was when she lost control of her pelvis, her thrusts against Ymir’s head becoming wild and sloppy. She went completely rigid from top to toe, and then she began to shake, uttering a thin, reedy wail punctuated by a series of surprisingly deep grunts. After something like ten seconds, the pitch of the wail began to fall, and all the tension drained out of her like a plug had been pulled. She slumped forward over Ymir’s head and shoulders, clutching at her back.

Ymir rose to her feet, taking care not to drop Historia. Her entire face was shining wet, and her eyes were as soft as Armin had ever seen them. “Good girl,” she whispered. Deftly she shifted Historia’s limp form into her arms and brought her up onto the bed again. Historia’s head lolled against Ymir’s chest, her eyes closed, her face still a deep pink. Her legs weren’t wide apart, but Armin could see something gleaming on her inner thigh.

“Wake up, Armin,” Ymir said sharply. “Your turn.”

It snapped him out of the syrup-thick trance he’d fallen into. “Uh — y-yeah,” he gasped, fumbling with his fly. Survey Corps trousers had zippers; these stupid things had buttons. Finally he got them all undone, pulled himself out, clambered gracelessly up onto the bed, let Ymir grab one of Historia’s legs and drape it over her own shoulder for him, got into position—

_God. Oh, God. **Fuck.**_

He lasted maybe five seconds.

When Armin’s head cleared, his forehead was sticking to Historia’s. At this close range it was hard to read her expression, but her eyes still looked hazy, the pupils enormous. Earlier in the year, she’d begun to develop dark circles under her eyes, and he could see the sweat runs in the makeup that had been applied to them and some of the purplish skin beneath. He could see a few pores on the tip of her nose, too, the powder with which it’d been dusted having settled into them.

“Don’t pull out just yet, Romeo,” Ymir said as she slid out from behind Historia. Armin recognized the name from his grandfather’s book. He wondered if Historia did, if she weren’t still too far gone for it to register.

At that point she seemed to come back to herself, shifting under him and grabbing him by the forearms so that their position was more stable. It occurred to him for the first time that he was mostly clothed, even still had his shoes on, while she was naked. Awkward in and of itself, but with Ymir there he was kind of glad he wasn’t naked too.

Suddenly Ymir was there again with a handkerchief in one hand and a pillow in the other. She handed the former to Armin and thrust the latter under Historia’s hips and bottom, Historia wriggling to accommodate it. “Stand up, Armin,” Ymir ordered. He eased backward and pulled out of Historia, completely soft now and grimacing at the relative coolness of the room’s air. As he dabbed himself clean with the handkerchief, Ymir threw a light blanket over Historia, covering her from neck to mid-calf.

“Okay. Sexytimes are _over,”_ Ymir said. “Armin, just leave the handkerchief on the floor, the servants’ll get it. Historia, I’ll be back in ten. Don’t move. You don’t want to lose any of that super-special strategic-genius baby batter.” Armin, who had just finished buttoning up his trousers again, cringed.

Historia blew out her breath through her nostrils. “Armin,” she said. Ymir, who’d been about to hustle him through the doors, let him turn around to look at her one more time. Her mouth was tight, but he could see relief in her eyes.

“Thanks,” she said.

Armin had the feeling he should thank her in return. How many subjects of the Walls would ever be called upon for this kind of situation? What he ended up saying was, rather stupidly, “Uh, sure.”

Ymir snorted again, but Historia nodded, looking like she’d just put down an enormous burden. That was the last view of her face Armin had before Ymir propelled him back into the inner corridor.

*

The palace steward had his staff put Armin up for the night in a room two floors and a wing away from Historia’s suite. Armin’s dinner was rich, his bathwater was hot and scented, his featherbed was like a cloud, and the hallway outside was silent.

He could’ve taken a royal coach back to Survey Corps HQ in Rose. Instead, at first light — which didn’t come fast enough for his taste — he swung up onto his horse and rode southeast. It was several days of ration bars and hard apples, perfunctory washes at best, drinking from streams, and sleeping on the ground. It was also one night at a filthy inn in Ehrmich because Armin hadn’t started looking for a decent campsite while it was still light enough. That meant a fistfight over a three-year-old gambling debt in the hallway outside his room, one glass too many of cheap vine, his even cheaper dinner coming up about half an hour later, and, next morning, a pounding headache that he didn’t shake until mid-afternoon.

He got to HQ on the afternoon of the fourth day feeling, oddly, like part of him had been scrubbed clean. He scrubbed the rest of it, thoroughly, in the empty shower room — to his immense relief, much of the Corps was out on training or other business — and a little later knocked on Eren’s door.

“Hey,” Eren said, eyes wide with concern, as he let Armin in.

“Hey.” Armin slumped into the chair by the wall and closed his eyes.

“Did everything… go okay?”

“I… guess.”

There was an awkward silence. Then Eren said, “So. It’s a waiting game for the next month or two, huh?”

Armin shuddered. He’d let himself forget the possibility that a repeat performance might be required. “Yeah. But… we’re both young and healthy, we’re not under major stress anymore, and she’s been eating well. She’s probably fertile. I don’t see why I wouldn’t be, too. I know it doesn’t always … take the first time. But there’s a good chance it did.”

“Wow.” Eren shook his head. “You’re gonna be a dad, Armin. That’s… that’s pretty amazing.” His voice hitched on the last word.

Armin opened his eyes again and looked up at him. Eren wore an odd expression, and his eyes were a little too shiny. It pulled at Armin’s heart. “Well, you’re going to be the godfather,” he said with a smile. The word made Eren’s mouth flatten, and he turned away. Too late, Armin remembered Shadis and cringed.

“So, um,” Eren said a little too sharply. “Did you have fun?” Then it was his turn to look mortified. “Uh. I didn’t mean—”

“Yeah, I know.” Armin let out a deep breath. “All I’ll say is, don’t be jealous.”

“I’m _not_ jealous!” Eren blurted emphatically. Armin’s brows went up, and Eren looked even more mortified. “I mean—” He bit his lip. “I’m not blind, I know she’s attractive. But … what she and I went through, just before she killed her dad, was pretty intense. I can’t think of her like … like _that._ I was so happy they didn’t pick me.”

“Oh. Right,” Armin said. He’d heard the gist of what had happened in the cavern beneath the Reiss chapel before the rest of the Survey Corps flew in. There were bits and pieces he hadn’t heard, and neither had Mikasa. Maybe they’d hear them someday, when Eren wanted to tell them. Maybe they never would.

“So, yeah.” Eren pinched the bridge of his nose. “It would have been really weird.”

“Really weird,” Armin echoed, rubbing his eyes with the heels of both hands. He wondered whether Eren actually wanted to know _how_ weird it would have been. He decided that there were some things Eren, like Jean, was probably better off not knowing.


End file.
